


Environmental stress

by YvannaIrie



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Stop sneaking off to canoodle you have a job, stress will kill you quicker than any injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 14:06:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16389128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YvannaIrie/pseuds/YvannaIrie
Summary: As if scouting wasn’t tedious enough, the storm had picked up right as they’d arrived, as a specific nuisance against their efforts to be ready for battle.





	Environmental stress

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy this slight snack, which I wrote to break my mental snarl over finishing a longer fic.

Springer is the first one of them to fall. He drops almost mid-stride, going from insisting with light-headed ease that he’s fine, to face down in the dirt, kicking up a cloud of the fine ash the static electricity storm has blown into the valley.

As if scouting wasn’t tedious enough, it had picked up right as they’d arrived, as a specific nuisance against their efforts to be ready for battle.

Bulkhead’s the next one to go. He falls heavily on his knees while Impactor is still helping Springer into Roadbuster’s arms, air filters sputtering painfully as he leans on his elbows, and seriously, a part of Wheeljack can’t stop wondering how in the Pit _Impactor_ still manages look entirely unaffected by the thick soot cloud they’re stuck in, despite having neither the military-grade filters the party’s warmechs have and being bigger than _any_ of them, even while a much smarter and louder part of him has a spark-deep feeling that he _doesn’t_ want to know.

His own fans aren’t even running on high, but that’s hardly a surprise. Impactor pings for his attention, and nods his helm towards Bulkhead. “Can you get him back to the drop ship by yourself?”

“I’m fine”, Bulkhead says, laboriously, and rises to sit on his heels, still venting heavily as he tilts his helm back, optics offline. “Just… let me catch a breath.”

Impactor doesn’t acknowledge it, letting Roadbuster take Springer off his servos and turning to look up at the sky. “How’s the weather looking, Storm?”

“You’ve got maybe thirty minutes before the next cloud hits you”, Rotorstorm says, somewhere high above the miserable clouds of dust, addressing the whole team over the radio. “Which means inoperable conditions in fourty to fourty five.”

“And there you have it”, Impactor says, and nods at Wheeljack again. “Take him back, we’ll have to finish up later anyway.”

Wheeljack pings his acknowledgement. It’s not worth the distraction to _fret_ , even though he’s hardly been the only one to make worried glances at their team’s heavies, as the air quality started to drop. Bulkhead groans ruefully as he walks over, and kneels to sling Bulkhead’s arm over his shoulders. He tugs at Bulkhead’s servo, digits curling in place under a plate of armour on his waist.

“C’mon, big guy, up you go.”

Bulkhead groans again, optics offline, but braces his other hand against the ground and pushes, giving Wheeljack just enough leverage to pull him on his pedes. They wobble and almost overbalance, Wheeljack’s knees locking when Bulkhead leans his weight over him, before finding his pedes again. Heat radiates from his chassis, the vibration from his fans transferring to Wheeljack’s frame while they uselessly try to push the soot out of his systems, inevitably only drawing more of it in.

Wheeljack raps his digits against Bulkhead’s hand sympathetically, pulling him closer to better support his weight.  “Still with me?”

“Yeah”, Bulkhead says in a hoarse snarl, his other servo pressed against his chest. There’s a rattle to every ventilation, the tell-tale sound of a clogged filter.

“We just gotta make it down to the drop ship, and we can get you patched up”, Wheeljack continues saying, as he takes a step, pulling at Bulkhead’s hip and shifting their collective weight forward until Bulkhead’s pede follows suit. “One pede in front of the other. C’mon.”

Bulkhead coughs out a laugh, as they start to find a slow, limping rhythm, pedes dragging through the soot. “I don’t get how Impactor’s still standing”, he with sharp chagrin. “He’s even bigger than Springer and me.”

“Don’t ask me”, Wheeljack says blandly, trying his best to radiate reassurance. He hears a vent stall, and Bulkhead groans sharply before Wheeljack feels pain shooting through his fields.

A light shines over the hill ahead of them – probably Roadbuster and Springer having reached the drop ship. They’re kicking up dust as they go, too, the wind changing direction so often there’s no sense tracking anything visually. It would be slow going, Wheeljack reasons, even if Bulkhead _could_ walk without straining all his systems with every lousy step.

“But, hey, think positively”, he says when they reach the hollow their transport fleet is parked in, pedes sliding on the dust as they almost overbalance again. He’s probably leaving dents in Bulkhead’s armour, with the kind of grip he has on them. “the ‘Cons won’t probably have any forewarning, either. At least we’ll the advantage if a storm hits during the battle.”

The seal on the drop ship ramp opens, filtered air blasting out and blowing the clouds of soot up from the ground around them. They make it up the slope clumsily, the uneven rhythm of their steps drowned out by the filtration system roaring to life.

“A hell of a perk, if it works in our favour”, Bulkhead grinds out once they reach the top of the slope, reaching out blindly to support himself against the wall. The snarl of the soot-covered fans picks up, as Wheeljack moves to his front, wrapping both of his arms around Bulkhead and helping him lower himself to the floor, back to a support beam.

A maintenance panel transforms away, and Bulkhead reaches inside to pull free an air filter that’s caked over with dirty yellow dust. Bulkhead vents in, the snarl of his fans easing as clean air rushes through them. “What I’d give to see their Seekers fall out of the sky with their filters full of this slag.”

Wheeljack smiles, as Bulkhead taps the filter against the floor, before his helm lolls back and eyes close again. His own servos are still on Bulkhead’s chest, palpable relief suffusing their fields as cooling systems come back online, carrying dust and static away from overheated systems. As he moves a servo over a vent, feeling the strength of the air current, Bulkhead cracks a single optic back online, and lifts a hand to grab Wheeljack’s, and pull it against his cheek with a tired smile.

Wheeljack lowers himself on his knees, relishing Bulkhead’s affection and comfort as the stress on his systems eases. But in the coolness of the cargo hold, Bulkhead’s whole frame feels hot to the touch, his vents blasting both of them with heat to the point where Wheeljack feels his own fans kicking up to dispel it.

“You’re burning up”, he mutters, digits tracing the housing of a cable next to Bulkhead’s jaw. “Are you sure you’re fine? You’re spitting up dust pretty bad.”

“I’ll be fine”, Bulkhead says, voice a little rough. His vents are coated with soot, but his fans are longer whining from the stress of having to push air as thick as that through them.

“I should go get the compressor, get the rest of that gunk out before you, I dunno, blow a fuse from the heat, or _several—_ “

“I’ll be _fine_ ”, Bulkhead says, more insistently, his grip on Wheeljack’s hand tightening when Wheeljack goes to stand up. “Jackie, really, I don’t break that easy.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, excuse me then”, Wheeljack says, sarcastically, and is shocked to realise how worried it comes out sounding. And then when it bleeds into his fields, Bulkhead has the audacity to _smile_ , pleased and amused and affectionate.

Ridiculous.

Wheeljack scoffs, and leans back on his pedes, before realising Bulkhead’s still holding onto his hand, locking it against his shoulder. His mask snaps back, just so he can properly frown (not pout, _frown_ ) at Bulkhead, and puts his free hand on his hip demonstratively, halfway into standing up. “C’mon, I need to head back, help them finish up scouting.”

“Eeeeh”, Bulkhead sneers, tipping his helm against Wheeljack’s arm with a smile. “You heard the chief, we’ll need to do this again when the weather clears up anyway.” _His_ free hand comes up, leaning forward and then back when he gets a grip on Wheeljack’s forearm, his weight pulling Wheeljack forward until he overbalances, knees hitting the deck again.

Wheeljack hisses and catches his weight on his servos, both of which are back on Bulkhead’s chest and being held there by Bulk’s hands over his. Tenderness and temptation flood his fields and he raises an eyebrow, leaving no doubt in his own fields as to what he thinks of the self-satisfied grin Bulkhead’s aiming back at him.

It’s especially useless to fret _now_ , after all. Stress won’t actually _harm_ them, it just keeps them busier than they'd like. There’s little harm in a blown fuse or a busted filter, they don’t have to be _comfortable_ to stay alive, but—

“Come on, Jackie”, Bulkhead says, drawing it out as he pulls Wheeljack’s other hand back against his cheek. “Comfort a poor, overheated mech, would you?”

Wheeljack can’t believe him, sometimes. Exasperated, he lets his weight rest against Bulkhead, giving him the best unimpressed look he can muster as he pings Impactor.

_[[ Chief, I’m gonna stay with Bulk for a while. ]]_

_[[ Call if you need me for something. ]]_

A moment later there’s a wordless acknowledgement, a testament to how generally trying the circumstances are, and okay, then, _fine,_ Wheeljack curls his digits into gaps in Bulkhead’s armour, tipping his helm against his chest with a resolute _happy now?_ in his fields. 

And judging from the way Bulkhead relaxes on his haunches, free arm curling around Wheeljack’s side to press him closer to his spark, he supposes both of them are.


End file.
